


Click.

by HobbitKitten



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Dean's kind of manipulative, I Don't Even Know, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitKitten/pseuds/HobbitKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants a very specific photo.  He wants other things too, but he’ll settle for a photo right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What I'm looking for.

***Dean’s POV***

 

“Mmm. No.” _Click._ “No. Not quite what I’m looking for. Here, lemme…”

I reached out and put a hand on his hip pulling him back an inch or so, just to force him to arch his back a tiny bit. Yeah. Better.

“Jesus Christ Deano. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Hm? Know it when I see it.” _Click._

I flash him a smile. One that he’s described as, and I quote, impish, in the past. What a nerd. Who says shit like that?

He rolls his eyes and breathes a sigh. _Click._ We’re getting there.

“You know, if you just tell me, I can give you whatever it is you’re wanting.”

I smile. Promises, promises. I say nothing. _Click._

“It’s sorta the job description, mate. Actor: willing to fake whatever emotions required for the sake of art.”

“Sayin’ you fake it for money Turner? Whore.”

His head tilts back, just a little bit, and he laughs. _Clickclickclick._ Mm. Beautiful. That genuine Aidan Turner smile.  All teeth and shining eyes.  Not that fake, closed lipped bullshit I see in way too many of his press photos.  Real. Effortless. Perfect.  But not what I’m looking for. Not today.

In fact, that delicious little laugh has undone all my hard work.  Now he’s relaxed. Feeling all helpful again.

“Nah, it’s gotta be honest, Aidan.”

I set my camera down.  He quirks an eyebrow at me and I frown and gesture for him to stay put. I fold my arms across my chest and look him up and down.  Slowly. Calculating.  Definite bonus of being a photographer.  You can leer at your hot male model and it totally passes as ‘pensive artist face.’ I slowly walk around him, still staring.  He’s starting to shift around. Just a little. I’m making him uncomfortable. He can see me in the mirror, and I know he’s watching my face. So I let myself smile, just a little, just for a second.  I happen to be looking directly at his ass at the moment.  Out of the corner of my eye I catch his reflection in the mirror. Blushing. Good. Even more uncomfortable. We’re getting there.

“Take a step back.”

He jumps a little at the abrupt break of our silence. Hardly noticeable. But then he steps back, as instructed. Good boy.

“Farther. Straighten your arms. Spread your legs a little.”

He’s arms-length away from the mirror now, but he’s straightened his back. He licks his lips. He does that when he’s feeling a little nervous or uncomfortable. Or vulnerable. I have the urge to grab my camera again. But not just yet. Yes, we’re getting there.

“Lean on the mirror Aid. Let it support your weight. Not your legs.”

A flash of confusion. I move closer to him, uncross my arms.

“Here, shift just a bit.”

Standing to his left, I put my right hand on his shoulder, pushing a little, encouraging him to lean. With my other hand I go to touch his hip again, but no. Instead I put my palm flat on his leg, just a few inches below his belt.  If I wanted to, I could slide my hand over just a little and get a nice handful of inner thigh, but no. He might flee out the open door.  Instead I push on his leg, forcing it back. Just a few inches. I want him bent over. But really, who doesn’t?

“Good. That’s better.”

I’m standing so close to him that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, even if I didn’t have my hands on him. I can hear him breathing. A little bit ragged. Good.

I slide my right hand down his back and my left up his leg until I have a grip on his waist with both hands. I turn him just a bit. Angling his body. I let my hands linger a bit longer than they need to. Just until –

“Dean? W-”

There we go. A definite bit of gravel in his voice. A little shaky too.

“Shut it. Let me think.”

“But-“

“Models don’t need to talk, Turner. Quiet.”

He swallows. I can feel him watching me in the mirror as I cross my arms again. I don’t step back though. Still uncomfortably close. Well, uncomfortable for him I suppose. I like it here.

“Don’t move.”

I slide closer to the mirror, closer to Aidan’s face.  With both hands, I smooth his shirt across his shoulders. They’re tight now, not relaxed anymore. I pause and consider his reflection. No, I’m not going for relaxed.  Still standing on his left, I slide my right hand over his right shoulder and tug at his collar.  I move my other arm under his left, and button his shirt. My mouth is right next to his ear.

“Mm. Good. Better. Getting closer, Turner.”

Practically a whisper. I can feel the heat rising in his face again.  Close indeed.

I drop my left hand and slide my right back to his shoulder.  I step back just a bit, still considering him, still looking him over from top to bottom. Nice bottom. I digress. I feel an inkling of inspiration. Quickly I run my hand down his spine, stop at his belt, start to tug at his shirt.

“Dean, I-?”

I interrupt him again.

 “Quiet.”

 “Dean, I really –“

“Shut. Up. I’m thinking.”

Aidan hates being interrupted. Hates being told to shut up. Really isn’t a fan of being told what to do in general. He scowls. I smile.

Then I return to the task at hand. I pull the back of his shirt up, untucking it from his jeans. Using both hands I pull the rest of his shirt from his jeans. His breathing is quick and I can practically see the tension building in his back and arms as I reach around to his belly, untucking the front of his shirt too. I spare a quick glance at his reflection.  The scowl has been replaced by a deliberately blank expression.

Feeling particularly pleased with myself, I throw a cheeky wink his way. He swallows, but his expression stubbornly remains the same.

In three brisk steps I cross back to my camera, pick it up, and _clickclickclick._ Just about there.

“Eyes on the floor.” _Click._ “No. Just your eyes, tilt your head back where it was. ” _Click._ “ Scoot your right foot forward a bit. Just a bit. No. Too much. Back.” _Click._ “There.” _Click._ “Turn your hips toward me. More.” _Click._ “More. Nah. Back where they were.” _Click._ “Bend your elbow. Other one. Too much.” _Click._ “Don’t move.”

I shift my camera to my left hand and approach him again. Quick as I can, I brush an errant curl back where it belongs. You’d think that much product would keep ‘em in place, but no. Then I tug on the hem of his shirt again, so that it hangs loosely in front of him, very much in his personal space again. I smooth the back of his shirt again (admittedly unnecessary), straighten his collar, run my hand down his right arm and tug at his cuff. Then, reaching across him, fingers on the back of his neck, palm at his jaw, I tilt his face a bit, slowly, lingering a bit, until he’s just where I want him.

I step back.“Stop looking in the mirror, dammit.” _Click._ “Don’t bite your lip.” _Click._ “Roll your shoulder back a little.” _Click._ “Eyes on the ground, Aid, Jesus. ” _Click._ “Oh for fuck’s sake. Hold still. Stop tapping your thumb on the glass.” _Click._ “You know what, move your right arm down.” _Click._

Aidan huffs a quiet, frustrated sigh and moves his hand with a bit more force than necessary. For just the briefest of moments his eyes find me in the mirror and his blank expression slips. His brow furrows just ever so slightly. Eyes looking up from under his dark brows. Not angry. No. Frustrated. Annoyed, maybe. Conflicted. Tired. And that tiny spark of lust that he never lets himself give in to. _Click._

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read petrovacharm’s “Because I want you on your knees” (and LOVED it, by the way). Couldn't believe I’d never seen the picture that inspired that fic (http://preciouskili.co.vu/post/84648987846/aidan-turner-by-dean-ogorman). I mean, seriously. My muse woke up, kicking and screaming, demanding I write something myself. So I hope the super-talented petrovacharm doesn't mind me using the same source of inspiration. :) I promise I only stole petrovacharm's source of inspiration, not any of their (brilliant) ideas. Besides, I don't think I could do the PWP quite that well. Whew!
> 
> Also, I have never written Aidean or Hobbit RPF before – in fact I haven’t written any fic at all in over a decade. So please, I’d appreciate any feedback.
> 
> Also, un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	2. Weird.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wants a very specific photo. Aidan wants to help.

***Aidan’s POV***

 

Oh, what the hell. I never seem to be able to tell him no anyway. Why is that? I glance down at my mobile again, Deano’s message still waiting for my reply.

_Come back tonight? Got an idea. Just you? (no offense)_

A while ago Dean had asked me and Sara if he could take our pictures for his photography stuff.  He’s in town a few days so yesterday we’d went to his hotel (his _shit_ hotel, damn man).  He took some cool shots. ‘Cause he always does. Mostly Sara, some of me.  Not many of us together.  Because once he got around to that, it was late morning, we’d been there a couple hours. And lately it feels like we, Sara and I, can’t be in the same room together for much longer than that before we start sniping at each other.  I don’t even really know what we’re fighting about half the time, but it feels like that’s all we do anymore. I dunno. I’m always pissing her off though. Maybe we’re spending too much time together? But aren’t we supposed to? I mean we’ve been together ages. We love each other. I mean, we do. I’m sure we do. 

My phone chirps again, snapping me out of my stupid, depressing reverie. I forgot to reply.

_Aid? Helllooooooo… ;)_ _  
_

_Sorry mate. Sure. When?_

_8? Wear that same shirt. I like it._

_Cool._

Maybe this is just what I need. Some time with a mate. Dean and I always have fun together when it’s just us.  Last time I did some pics for him we mostly sat there, joking around, drinking beer and smoking. Well, I was smoking.  He says I have an oral fixation. Time before that I got to wear a kick-ass soldier’s uniform and play with guns. So, yeah. Why not. Should be fun.

I spend most of my day reading through a couple scripts I’d promised to look at and wondering if Sara’s gonna call and apologize. Or should I? Anyway, I eventually head over to Dean’s hotel. I catch a look at myself in the shiny metal doors of the elevator as I ride up to his floor. Sleeves rolled up. Top button undone. I run a hand down my shirt in what I suppose is a futile attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. It’s kinda rumpled since I wore it yesterday for a few hours and then tossed it on the floor when I got home. I try tucking it in. Maybe that looks better?  Oh, whatever. Dean told me to wear it. He knows that when it comes to ironing, I just can’t be arsed, so I doubt he’ll be surprised.

When I knock on Dean’s door I can hear him shuffling around inside, cursing under his breath and knocking shit over, by the sound of it.  Couple seconds later he throws the door open wide and flashes a wild grin.

“Aid! Come on in.”

I can’t help but smile. And cock a quizzical eyebrow at his disaster of a hotel suite.  He’s dragged the furniture out of the little sitting room area and haphazardly shoved ALL of it into the bedroom.

“Redecorating?”

“Fuck off.”

I shake my head and feel my earlier foul mood lifting, as I follow him through the maze of cheap hotel furniture into the sitting room.  Well. Can’t call it that anymore. No chairs.  Crazy Kiwi. Yeah. This is totally what I needed today.

“So, your brilliant idea involves puke yellow walls and an empty sitting room?”

“Who’s the photographer here Turner?”  He glares over his shoulder, but I can see the smile he’s trying to suppress. I mime zipping my lips and throw my hands up in surrender. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, bitch.”

He bounds past me into the bed/chair/sofa/everything-room. Fucking bounds. Seriously. He’s certainly excited about something. Usually it’s me that can’t sit still. But when Deano gets all excited about his painting or his photography, or whatever, he turns into a fucking puppy. He’s back a minute later with a barstool he conjured from somewhere (weird.) and his camera. I stand there with my hands in my pockets watching him pinball his way around the room until he apparently finds a good place for his stool and puts it down, then sets his camera on it.  I must be grinning while I watch him because he pulls a face at me and says:

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t _say_ anything!”

“Yer face did. Ass. Come here.”

Laughing, I cross over to him. “Okay, okay. What _is_ this idea you called me over here for, mate?”

Dean’s face goes all serious and he gives me this thoughtful stare. It’s a little disconcerting. Finally, he answers me.

“There’s this thing you do. Well, you do it sometimes. More, recently. A lot more. I want a picture of it.”

“This thing I do?”

“With your face.”

“A thing I do with my _face_?”

He waves dismissively. “Fuck off.” But there’s no malice in his voice and I smile. He continues.

“Anyway, besides that, there’s this ginormous mirror in here and if I can get the shot I’m thinking of, it’ll be... Good. Perfect. It’ll be good. Trust me.”

“Alright, alright. Whatcha need me to do, Deano?”

He picks up his camera and starts fiddling with the shit-ton of dials that mean nothing to me but are apparently very important photography-y stuff, and waves in the general direction of the mirror. “Stand over there by the mirror for now. I just need to.  And then. Yeah. Just. ‘K.”

He’s not really talking to me anymore. Just mumbling to his camera. So, I do as I’m told and walk over to the mirror. I lean up against the wall right next to it, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other.  I watch Dean move around the room in silence for a few minutes.  Sometimes dragging his stool with him, always staring down at his camera.  I figure he’s trying to find an angle where he and his friend the stool don’t show up in the reflection. I like watching Dean work.  That’s not weird is it? I always have. Not just his photography stuff. Anything he’s really passionate about.  Even the first day he joined us on the Hobbit set, it was cool to watch him work.  He’s very intense when he’s working.  Sure, he jokes around as much as anyone else and he’s no buzzkill or anything, but when it’s time to work, act, paint, take photos, whatever, you can just feel how into it he is.  He doesn’t hold back. Does what it takes to get exactly what he needs done. Right now he’s getting all into his artsy-pensive-photographer-zone.  It’s a different version of Dean than I’m used to on an everyday basis. See, I’ve learned a lot about him, just watching him work. Right now, his mind’s going a zillion miles an hour. Thinking about all the practical stuff like lighting and color, and angles, and background. But give him a minute and he’ll just kind of relax. Zone out. He’ll have decided what he wants and he’ll click around with that camera of his, shot after shot, ridiculously patient, just kind of in his own head, until he gets the absolute perfect photo, finds exactly what  he’s after. Whatever _that_ may be today. Some random thing I do with my face. I guess.  I kind of envy his patience.

Then Dean’s quiet question breaks our comfortable silence.

“So, how’s Sara?”

I feel the tension in my shoulders return, my teeth clench a little, and I draw a sharp breath.  Perfectly innocent question, I’m sure. But, exactly what I’d rather not talk about tonight. I notice now that he’s no longer staring at his camera. He’s looking me straight in the eyes, considering.  I shift my weight, stuff my hands in my pockets, and realize I haven’t answered him.

“Um. Fine. I guess. You know what – just – I think we… Never mind. Fine.”

I’m a little annoyed now. But I shouldn’t be. I mean, Deano was just making conversation. Just being friendly.  He doesn’t know how rough things have been lately. How badly things ended when she walked out last night. ‘Cause I haven’t told him. I don’t know why. I tell Dean everything. I don’t know. Fuck. Suddenly, I really need a smoke.

Frowning, I ask “Are you ready yet?”

It comes out a little snappier than I’d intended, but Dean seems to let me slide. Gives me that dreamy/artisty stare and slowly nods.

“Stand in front of the mirror?”

I shift over, glaring at my reflection. _Click._

I shake myself. I doubt Dean is looking for my moody/petulant-face. _Click._

“Roll your sleeves down. Do up the cuffs?” _Click._ “Hm. Do me a favor? Rest your hands on the mirror – up high? ‘Bout even with your shoulders?”

I do as he asks. I’m about a foot or so from the mirror, arms relaxed, bent at the elbows. Somebody’s certainly picky today. I’m really wanting that cigarette.

“So, what’s this thing you need me to do with my face Deano?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood a bit. My mood.

He smiles. I like his smile. That’s not weird, right? I relax a little bit.

“Oh, we’ll get there. Just. Just, be you. Look up.” _Click._

Helpful. Yay.

“Nah, look down again, like you were.” _Click_. “Flatten your right hand out a bit.” _Click._ “More.” _Click._

Jesus, this is going to take forever.  He spends the next couple minutes telling me to shift this way, shift back, move a little, move back. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was being deliberately irritating. I wish he’d just tell me what he wants. He tells me to look down again and turn my feet a bit towards him.

“Better?” I’m trying not to sound impatient.

“Mmm. No.” _Click._ “No. Not quite what I’m looking for. Here, lemme…”

Suddenly he reaches out and touches my hip. I don’t know why but it startles me.

“Jesus Christ Deano. What exactly are you looking for?” I feel bad for snapping at him, but hell.

“Hm? Know it when I see it.” _Click._

Fucker. He _is_ being deliberately annoying. I don’t know why. But he is. Let’s move this along, mate.

“You know, if you just tell me, I can give you whatever it is you’re wanting.”

_Click._ He’s silent. Seriously. Just tell me. It doesn’t happen often, but right now, I don’t really want to be around Dean. I’m not pissed off or anything. I… I just wanna go. He’s acting weird and I feel. Weird. Shut up. Word of the day apparently. Weird. I try to hurry him along. I should know better.

“It’s sorta the job description, mate. Actor: willing to fake whatever emotions required for the sake of art.”

“Sayin’ you fake it for money Turner? Whore.”

He gives me this smartass grin and I find myself laughing. Yeah, okay. Maybe I don’t want to go.  I gotta stop letting my personal shit interfere here. I have been kinda an uncooperative model. Just relax. Let him do his art-boy-thing.

His smile fades and he tells me to be honest, whatever that means. Now he’s staring at me. I can practically feel his eyes on every inch of me. Suddenly, I’m feeling, I don’t know, exposed? I study his face in the mirror, looking for some hint of what I should be doing and – wait – is he staring at my ass? No way. Noo way, Turner. Don’t go there.

“Take a step back.”

Christ. I try not to jump out of my skin but I doubt I succeeded. My face feels hot. Wonder if he saw me watching his face?

He’s got me standing further back now, and when he tells me to spread my legs I – well I’m sure he didn’t mean it to sound like that. I lick my lips. And that knot in my stomach is just. Just. Whatever. I can ignore it. Wait – he just said something – what did he say? He’s moving closer to me now and before I can ask what he had told me to do, his hands are on me.  Warm. And insistent. And fuck fuck fuck, no. No it doesn’t feel _good_. Why would it? It’s Dean. He’s just. Moving me. And standing really close. Dean touches me all the time. It’s fine. Fuck. I need him to get _off_ of me.

“Dean? W-”

“Shut it. Let me think.”

“But-“

“Models don’t need to talk, Turner. Quiet.”

I swallow. Best just do what he asks. WHY is he standing so close? I give myself a mental shake. Because he’s Dean, dumbass. We’re friends. We’re-

“Don’t move.”

Suddenly, he’s right. There. Hands on my shoulders, arm around my neck, breathing in my ear. If I try really, really hard, maybe I can pretend that knot in my stomach is not turning to a slow burn, and that my jeans do NOT feel a little bit tight. Because that _would_ be weird. And I’m pretty sure that’s not what he’s looking for.

“Mm. Good. Better. Getting closer, Turner.”

Really?! His hands are still on me. Still warm. Still insistent. Pulling at my shirt.

“Dean, I-?”

“Quiet.”

“Dean, I really –“

“Shut. Up. I’m thinking.”

I scowl. Bossy little prick. Wait – what - ? He’s got his arms around me now, untucking my shirt. What if he… notices… No. No. Not thinking about the tight jeans. Just. Relax. Okay, so I’m not gonna relax. But I do school my face into a nice, neutral mask.  

Fucker winks at me. IS he doing this on purpose?

“Eyes on the floor.” _Click._ “No. Just your eyes, tilt your head back where it was.” _Click._ “ Scoot your right foot forward a bit. Just a bit. No. Too much. Back.” _Click._ “There.” _Click._ “Turn your hips toward me. More.” _Click._ “More. Nah. Back where they were.” _Click._ “Bend your elbow. Other one. Too much.” _Click._ “Don’t move.”

Okay, make up your mind, you obnoxious little gnome.

Aaand of course. He’s touching me again. I want to be pissed at him. I want to be pissed at everything. The last two days, the last week. Month. Fuck. I just want to _get_ pissed. Maybe even black-out-not-a-care-in-the-world- _drunk_. He’s touching my face now. And it’s gentle and _definitely_ weird and I hate that I like it. A lot. This is so not why I came here today.

“Stop looking in the mirror, dammit.” _Click._

Oh goody. We’re back to Bossy Gnome. Handsy Gnome must be off molesting someone else.

“Don’t bite your lip.” _Click._ “Roll your shoulder back a little.” _Click._ “Eyes on the ground, Aid, Jesus.” _Click._ “Oh for fuck’s sake. Hold still. Stop tapping your thumb on the glass.” _Click._

He’s frustrated at me. I hate that. I want to get him his picture. I do. I want to help. I want to make him happy. But he _won’t_ tell me what he wants from my stupid fucking face and yet he won’t _stop_ telling me what to do!

“You know what, move your right arm down.” _Click._

I move my fucking arm. I _don’t_ punch the mirror. I want to. I’m not angry. I’m just. Just. I don’t know. I _really_ need that smoke. I look into the stupid mirror again. It’s right there. How can I not? It’s what you do with mirrors. Stop telling me not to look at it. I catch Dean’s eye. He has nice eyes.

_Click._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never written Aidean or Hobbit RPF before – in fact I haven’t written any fic at all in over a decade. So please, I’d appreciate any feedback.
> 
> I don't really know if I'll write another chapter. We'll see. I don't really want to be mean to Aidan, but my muse kinda demands it.
> 
> Also, un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	3. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beer: the most apologetic of the alcoholic beverages.

***Dean's POV***

With really great art, a painting, a sculpture, whatever, you just look at it and you automatically know, automatically feel, exactly what the artist was feeling when they were creating it. Well, I’ve decided. Aidan's basically breathing art. Not because he's fucking gorgeous. Although he is. That's not what I mean. It's why he's such a good actor.  When he's on, you look at him, and you feel what he feels, and he feels what his character feels. But not just when he's working. You rarely have to wonder about Aidan's mood on a day to day basis. Unless he intentionally closes himself off. And he can be very...careful. When he wants to. Anyway. It's more than being open. Emotive’s not the right word.  Well, it is accurate, but it’s not quite enough. He's, I don't know, emotionally infectious.  Just naturally.  So, yeah, I'm aware that I've been rather a dick. It’s clear that I've got him wound pretty tight.  It rolls off him in waves and I always have to be careful not to let myself get swept up when he's upset. So. I do feel bad for the guy. But I'd do it again. What a picture.

I've been staring at my camera for a while now. Silently. Aid's still standing where I put him. His thumb's tapping the mirror again. I glance up and he quirks an eyebrow. He's desperately uncomfortable now. Oh, fine. Time to take pity on my sexy human artwork and apologize in an appropriately manly fashion.

I waggle my eyebrows at him and give him a triumphant grin. I aim my camera roughly in his direction one last time and - _click_ \- at him.

"Beer?"

The relief is palpable. He pulls away from the mirror, runs his fingers through his curls. Which does more to dislodge them than straighten them, by the way.

I'm rewarded with another genuine, albeit somewhat shaky, Aidan Turner smile.

"God, yes."

There we go. Manly apology accepted. All's right in the world again.

"Gonna grab a smoke quick, though."  He magics a pack of cigarettes from somewhere and heads for the little balcony off my hotel room.

While he's outside I drop my camera on the bed, then dig down to the mini-fridge. I pull out a couple of bottles of Aid's favorite beer. What? When one's art requires mild, premeditated, jackass-ery, it's wise to have apology-alcohol on hand.

I settle onto the bed, lean up against the headboard, flip on the telly, and open my beer. When Aidan walks in, undoing the top button on his shirt (feel free to keep going, stud), I hand him a bottle. 

He's certainly more relaxed now, and flops into the most accessible piece of furniture at hand (happens to be a couch). I toss him the remote and pull my camera closer.  We spend nearly an hour in relative silence, just the low murmur of the television in the background.  Aid flicks absently through channels. I study the digital display on my camera and slowly cycle through the day's shots. At some point he gets up and grabs us a couple more bottles.  Doesn't say anything though, let's me go through my work in peace. Got some good shots today. I even kinda like that last one I took. Bent over, slightly blurry, nearly out-of-frame Aidan, hoping desperately to be done for the day. Not worth displaying. But. Fine for my … personal… collection.

Eventually I settle back, camera resting on my lap, and I watch Aidan watch TV. Well, he's looking in the direction of the TV, but he's clearly elsewhere. The couch is off to the right of my bed, and he’s splayed across it, with his back to me as he leans against the armrest. His shoulders are drawn up, still a little tense. Odd. Generally a beer fixes that. He's pulled his phone out of his pocket and glances at it every couple minutes.  I'm pretty sure he hasn't got it silenced, but it's been quiet all night.  Something's eating him lately. Something to do with Sara. Not sure what. Which is also odd. It's rare that he doesn't tell me every damned detail of his distressingly female-oriented love life. Of course, I don't expect him to tell me _everything_. And I am fine just sitting quietly together. But this particular silence on this particular night is starting to feel ... sad. And completely un-Aidan-y.  And, as artistically appealing as that slightly-tormented expression I spent the day chasing is, it doesn't need to become a permanent fixture.

On the other hand. He is beautiful in his melancholy. I can't help myself.

 _Click_.

His head swivels around, his eyes bright and questioning. Mm. Nice.

 _Click_.

"Ya alright?" I offer an easy grin, hoping for one in return. And if I'm honest, hoping to avoid talking about his hot girlfriend.  Don't get me wrong, another time, another place, I'd totally go at her. I completely understand the attraction. But when it comes to hearing about Aidan's sex life, I'd much rather discuss how he's suddenly decided that he'd love to give men a go, and wouldn't I please instruct him in the finer points of cock-sucking.

Unfortunately, I'm met with that entirely un-photograph-able tight-lipped smile, an unconvincing nod, and a decided dulling of his eyes.

Dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while. Dean was being uncooperative. And I got distracted writing what will be a smutty, and likely, final chapter. Now just to get the boys to that point.
> 
> And yes, this one's short, but I have two more very brief chapters that I'll be posting along with it, momentarily.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's left feedback! It's very helpful and appreciated.
> 
> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	4. Kissy Gnome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan is only a little intoxicated. Really.

***Aidan's POV*** 

I've managed to find a pseudo-comfy spot on Deano's dinky couch, but I have to twist my neck at a slightly awkward angle to watch him. He slides off the bed with a grunt and snags a couple of our few remaining beers out of his fridge.  Impressive how much booze that guy can fit into a mini fridge when properly motivated.  He hands me mine, but doesn't head back to his spot on the bed.  Instead, he shoves my feet off the couch and steals their spot opposite me. I mock-growl my disapproval and move to draw my legs up underneath me. Before I can Dean grabs my pant leg and pulls a recently displaced leg across his thighs. Shrugging, I drape the other across him too. Funny isn't it? Not an hour ago I wanted nothing more than for Dean to not touch me. Now that he's stopped with the Bossy Gnome routine, I really don't mind what the uninformed observer might confuse for nice cuddle on the sofa. 

Reflexively, I glance down at my phone. Again. Still nothing.

Dean gently bumps my leg with his knee. I snap my head up and meet his gaze.

"Sara?"

I sigh heavily. Oo boy, I’m subtle. I drain half my new beer in one go. More subtle. Oh, why not?

"Yeah."

I don't really know what I want to say. So I just pick at the label on my beer and avoid eye contact. I can never really focus properly when I have to stare him right in the eye. It’s ‘cause they’re so weirdly blue, I’m convinced. Men shouldn’t have such pretty eyes. It’s distracting. Of course, here I am, not looking him in the eye, _thinking_ about his stupid eyes. Also distracting. He sucks.

Dean jostles my leg again.

"Ya make a really twitchy seat, Deanie." He gives me a wink and a small smile and starts rapidly bouncing his knee. Prat.

"Yeah, fine, point made. We've been fighting?"

Yeah, 'cause he totally didn't notice that yesterday.

He rolls his eyes at me "No?!"

Smartass. But at least he stops jiggling his leg.

He lets me sit quietly for a while. I really don't know why I'm reluctant to tell him anyway. Dean's exactly the person I talk to when I'm stressed out. I take a couple more swigs of beer.  I'm nowhere near drunk but at least my head's starting to buzz pleasantly and my limbs are starting to feel warm and tingly. Especially the leg Dean's resting his hand on. For whatever reason. So I decide to just say it.

"I don't really know. But. I think maybe we broke up?"  My voice sounds much shakier and softer than I'd intended. Like some stupid little kid. Frustrated I drain the rest of my beer, run a hand through my hair, and spare a look at Dean.

Well, fuck him. He looks... amused? And when he speaks there's definitely a hint of barely-restrained laughter in his voice.

"You don't know?"

"Fuck off." Oo. That came out sharper than I meant it to. Yeah. I'm totally sulking now. Great.

Dean rubs his hand back and forth over my jeans.  Probably trying to calm the crabby kid he's suddenly found in his lap. Fuck that. Does feel nice though. No. No it doesn't. Fuck him.

"I'm sorry Aid." Still sounds like he's trying not to laugh. He squeezes just above my knee. "I am. Come on.  What exactly happened? I'm just sayin'. Generally, when I get dumped, I notice."

I shoot him my very best super-evil-glare. Which he also appears to find funny. Arse. I try to take a drink from my empty bottle. Fuck! I let my head fall back and stare forlornly at the fridge. Why is the boozy goodness so far away?

Dean rolls his eyes and hands me his nearly full beer.  Guess he doesn't wanna get up either. Fine. Your offering is acceptable, O'Gorman. We shall proceed.

"'S jus'... Yesterday, ya know, that's kinda normal now. Got inna good shoutin' match later. Las' night, n' she left." Hm. Maybe I am drinking these a bit fast. When did I eat last? Meh. Don't care.

"Yeah, but, Aid. She doesn't _live_ with you. Going home isn't necessarily code for I'm dumpin' you."

"Nah. But. She said. It's what she said." I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the couch. Pleasantly buzzy.  Dean squeezes my leg again. Hand's kinda high on said leg. Feels kinda... Meh. Still don't care.

"What'd she say, mate?" He squeezes again, prodding me to answer. I open my eyes but I stay slouched over.

"Said, 'Aidan,'" I point my finger at him and give him my imitation of angry-Sara-face. "'I'm sick of this shit. Sick of it. I'm so done with you.' An' she left."

"That's it?"

"Won' talk t' me t'day." I take another drink (how'd this one get so empty?) and toss my mobile at him. He can see our lack of texts/calls for himself. I'm tired of talking. I'm tired. I close my eyes again and swipe at my hair one more time. I don’t really like it this short. Sara does though. Ugh. Might be best to redirect my thoughts from what Sara likes.

Dean's still flipping through our messages. Which have decreased in number as they have increased in snarkiness over the past few months. 'Til today. When the only message is one I sent this morning after getting her voice-mail on the first ring:

_Tried to call. Got a minute?_

Then lots and losta nothin'.

We sit quietly for a couple minutes while he reads. Only things I'm aware of for the moment is the slow swimming in my head and Dean's hand making slow circles on my thigh.  I feel pretty good.  Brain's not thinking. Muscles all relaxed. Strong hands. But. Weird. Jeans feel tight again.

I snap my eyes open and sit up a little straighter.

"Well?"

"Well nothing. You need to actually talk to her, Aid. Ask her what 'done with you' really means. And don't underestimate the power of make-up sex."

I snort. Sexy, that. Ah, who knows. I lean forward to take my mobile back but Dean holds it out of my reach.

"Friends don't let friends text angry girlfriends drunk."

"Wasn't gonna!"

"Yeah."

"Wasn't."

"You know what?" Dean stands and gives my ankles a sharp tug. Now I'm flat on my back with a thump as my head bounces down onto the cushion.

I give him a stern look. "Ow." I rub my bounced head. Didn't REALLY hurt. But it's rude to bump an ever-so-mildly-intoxicated Irishman's brain. So. There.

I think he's laughing at me again. Then all of a sudden he's knelt down beside me. He's fast. He kisses my forehead and says - No wait. Kisses my forehead? Deano doesn't kiss foreheads, does he? Forehead kisser. Now he's Kissy Gnome. That's funny.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	5. Another Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's the King of Restraint.

 ***Dean's POV***

Wow. I mean, wow.  If Aid hadn't just handed me his mobile there's no way I'd believe this was him and Sara. Back on the Hobbit set, whenever I overheard him on the phone with her it was always disgustingly sweet. You know sometimes you see a couple that's so obviously fucking perfect together and so blatantly happy you just wanna punch 'em both in the face? Yeah. Like that. But these messages...I wonder what happened? They don't really seem to be arguing about anything, well nothing important at least, but damn. Snarky, bitchy. Some downright mean, and obviously intended to hurt.  And Aid's not innocent here. It's on both sides. I figured the shoot yesterday was just a bad day for them. But apparently they were keeping things restrained because there was a witness present. No wonder he's such a fucking stress case lately.

I glance up. He's cuddled into the couch, eyes closed, a tiny hint of a smile. Hair's officially disheveled. I don't know why he ever bothers slicking it down like that. He looks near-completely relaxed for the first time in the last two days.  I guess I’ll just shut up and let him sit until he decides it's talking time again. I'm running my hand slowly along one of the lovely legs that are draped across me. I'm not gonna lie. There's a small part of me... Mm. Well. Big part. Same difference. Anyway. There's a part of me thinking about sliding my hand up and in. Grabbing a nice handful. Or pinning Aid to the couch and telling him that yeah, I'm 100% sure he's been dumped, but that I can certainly take his mind off it. I definitely wouldn't mind a firm handful of disheveled curls. Would be more than happy to give him something other than a beer bottle to wrap his lips around. But. Yeah, that's not going to happen. I'm pretty sure he'd run. And given the alcohol intake, probably break his neck tripping through my disaster-area/hotel. He'd panic. Because even though I've seen want written all over his perfect, emotive face, I don't think he knows _what_ it is he wants. Not consciously. And because any such move on my part would convince him: nope, not dumped, definitely got a girlfriend to be faithful to. Stupid, moral idiot.

Suddenly he sits up and opens his eyes. "Well?"

Thing is, I'm well aware that I want him to ditch Sara, I want him to be single. And yeah, fine, maybe I toy with him once in a while. Maybe sometimes I'm a dick.  But I'm not a break-up-my-mate-and-his-girlfriend-so-I-can-lick-his-beautiful-body, kind of a dick.

So I lie to him. I tell him to talk to her, try to give him hope of a reconciliation. And maybe lying makes me a dick too, but at least he's not radiating anxiety any more.

Okay. I’m making the executive decision to keep this worry-inducing phone from him. Only way to do that is to keep it, and him, here. I stand up and pull him down onto the couch. He's too tall to lay down properly, so he's got his right leg draped over the far armrest, and his left dangling off the front edge.

He wrinkles his nose, closes one eye and pokes out his bottom lip. He looks about five-years-old.

"Ow."

Actually, I could swear he said 'owie,' but surely he's not quite that pissed. He scrubs at his 'wounded' head. Poor baby got a boo-boo, huh? Christ, he's gorgeous when he pouts. I so want a photo of that face. That'll have to be my next shoot. Pouty-Turner.

I kneel next to him, brush aside a tangle of hair, and kiss his brow.

"Better?"

Let no one ever say that I am not a man capable of remarkable restraint. Note that I kissed only his forehead. Not the perfect, pouting, drunken lips. Not the sharp, stubbled jaw. Not the slender, and no doubt, tasty neck. Just the forehead. Super-restrained, that's me.

He giggles. Yeah, no. I mean it. Giggles. Gettin' to be a bit of a lightweight, my mate is. There was a time when this would have been him just getting started. He's mumbling something to himself and I swear-to-God he just called me... Kissy Gnome? The fuck? Oh, he'll regret that one day. I'm writin' that shit down.

I consider pulling his shoes off so that he can sleep comfortably, but I'm not going to test my epic-self-control by beginning to undress the man.  Instead, I wind my way over to the little closet and pull out that scratchy spare blanket they seem to stock in every hotel room. I toss it over the sleepy Irishman contorted on my couch.

Maybe someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated. These chapters didn't come as easily as the first two (or the final chapter, which I've got largely done. Just gotta get there). So I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	6. Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan gets clarification.

***Aidan's POV***

It’s a bad sign that she wanted to meet here.  Cafes are great. If you’re looking for a busy, public spot where your boyfriend won’t make a scene. When you dump him.  That’s gotta be it. Or maybe I’m a paranoid dipshit and she wants a fucking coffee.

Christ, I can’t breathe properly. My chest feels tight. I check the time on my mobile again. 10:55. I’m always early. She’s always late. At least we’re consistent. The chair across from me scratches across the floor and I jump. Sara sits down.  She’s... Early.

Fuck.

 

***Dean's POV***

My pocket buzzes and I start. I fumble my mobile out – oh. Hell. Is that the time? Huh. I must have totally spaced off eating tonight. I’m fucking starving. Photos are starting to look right though. I’ve been fiddling all night. No. Working. Sounds better, that.  I jab at the screen, pull up my messages and wander toward the kitchen. Aidan.

_Busy? Awake? Whichever._

_No. Yes. Whichever._

Haven’t heard from Aid since I got home. Good to know he hasn’t stressed himself into the grave. Do I seriously have nothing but peanut butter and jelly in this place?

_You were right. Done w/ u doesn’t translate to “I’m dumping you.”_

Boo. Yeah, I’m a prick. I’m fine with that.

                                 _Good deal._

_Not really. Direct translation: “I liked you better when we were friends.”_

Reeeeeally?? Just a shit friend, me. I put down the half made sandwich and dial Aid. I’m a little bit surprised that he answers. He tends to go on the defensive when he’s legitimately upset or sad. Shuts people out. Doesn’t like not being in control of his reactions, or his emotions. Or himself. So I don’t push him and we talk about inconsequential shit.  Well, mostly I talk, he mostly grunts agreement and contributes the odd remark. I promise that we’ll get shit-faced at the next possible opportunity before we hang up.  I’m gonna have lovely dreams tonight.

Yeah.  _Shit_  friend. Absolutely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	7. Good night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean drinks just a touch too much.

***Dean's POV***

Been a good night. Gooood night. Seriously. Peter Jackson's fucking awesome, man.  Flew everybody in, put us all up for a few days, including us locals. Even though he needed, what, three hours of work? Not that he got it. 

"Mate, none o' that commentary's gonna be usable!"

I get a full-on Aidan Turner belly laugh. There is literally nothing more beautiful. Literally.

 "Nah, there's like, at least the first half hour!"

 I'm laughing too. It's not  _this_ funny. 

 "All your fault!" How dare he accuse me! Me! Innocent, sweet little me!

 "Nuh-uh! I only snuck us in a flask. Jimmy snuck in the bleedin' giant bottle of whiskey!" Mostly innocent me!

 "Where'd he hide that anyway?"

 I waggle my eyebrows and lick my lips sal- salashee - salacios- All sexy-like. "Bet I know!"

 Aidan has actually fallen out of his chair and I'm pretty sure he's gonna need oxygen soon.

 My face hurts. Stupid smiling. I squish my cheeks flat with the palms of my hands. Much better. Gives me a fish face though. That's funny too.

 "No! Iss yo' fawlt!" Ooo... fishy face doesn't talk too good. "I promished t' ge' you pished when I shaw you nex'. Yo' fawlt it wasn' til now."

 Aidan rolls on to his back. He's gasping for air but he's almost got his giggles contained. He throws his arms wide and it is just the most shamelessly, perfectly, tempting sprawl. His shirt's pulled up and a band of lightly tanned skin peeks out.  If it wasn't almost certain that- well, if it wasn't abso-fuckin'-lutely  _guaranteed,_ that I'd fall on my face in the process, I'd totally lean down and bite that skin. It's right there. I wish I had my camera. Or some whipped cream. Yeah. That'd be better. He smiles up at me. Maybe I'll risk the face-injury and bite him anyway. Or lick. Or suck.

 "Oh, I  _am_ pissed. Pissed pissed pissed. Mission completed." He holds his arms up to me and pouts. "Help me up Deano."

 I grab hold and tug. Fuck he's heavy for a skinny little bitch! This is not good. My balance is so shot right now.

 "Owwww!" I've joined him on the floor. Totally unintentionally. I managed to not kill us both in the process. Success! Smacked my knee though. Fail. But with all the booze in me right now, I'm not gonna need to worry about it hurting until tomorrow! Success!

 We're both laughing uncontrollably again. I love Aidan when he's happy-drunk. Happy-drunk Aidan is awesome. I tell him so. And happy-drunk Aidan is warm. Warm? Oh yeah. I landed on him. That's right. My smacked-left knee is between his legs. Good thing I only smacked me. Groin-kneed-Aidan would so not be happy-drunk with me. Actually I'm sorta straddling his right leg. I like it here.  My hands are on either side of his face. One of his arms is curled around where my hand is planted so he can card his fingers through his hair. It's getting longer. I like it longer. Wild. Sexy. Soft. Soft? My hand has joined his and I'm leaning on my elbow. My face is hovering just a couple inches from his face. Puzzled face. But smiling face. Tiny smile. Just at the corner of his lips. Would love to hear them moaning.

 I don't mean to do it. I really don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I choose to believe that a cast commentary will happen! 
> 
> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	8. Good day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan is happy-drunk. And then he's sober.

***Aidan's POV***

It's been a good day. I haven't had this much fun in aaaages. Too bad everyone's gone back to their rooms. It's so late. Stupid, old-n-sleepy-dwarves. Party killers. Now it's just me and Deano in his hotel room. And, may I add, how the fuck did I get on the floor?

"Oh, I  _am_ pissed. Pissed pissed pissed. Mission completed. Help me up Deano."

He pulls. And stumbles. And yeah, that didn't work. Which is hilarious.

"Oh, Happy-Drunk-Aidan, I love you so mate."

I'm laughing again. And I'm entirely sure that's why it takes me a while to notice how close Dean is. He's practically laying on me. You know. He'd make a good blanket. He's very warm. His breath smells boozy. Not that mine doesn't. I'm not really sure how he got a hand in my hair - that's some fancy falling!  I feel like a little kitty-cat getting my head scratched. 'S nice. All of a sudden, his fingers go to the back of my head. Well I think it was sudden. I wasn't really paying attention. I was getting head scritches. But he moves my head a little bit and leans down and- 

Holy shit. Dean's mouth is on mine. Firm. Hot. And soaked in whiskey. I feel like I've just been slapped really fucking hard. I don't mean like, I hurt, but those little spots that swim across your vision when someone really lays into you? And the adrenaline surge, like a sharp heat shooting through you? Yeah. And I can't breathe. And I can't think. I can't even move. I have never sobered up so fast in my life. This should not feel good. This should feel weird. This is Dean!  Panic, yes, the panic is what I should feel. What I do feel. Like someone's reached into my chest, grabbed my lungs, and is squeezing them so hard they'll probably explode any second. So why am I not already out the door? 

Because I like the way he feels. And I hope he never stops... 

Oh, fuck fuck fuck. Nope. No. Nope. Panic wins! I shove Dean off of me, hard. I'm gonna feel bad about that later, I bet. I scramble to my feet and stumble to the door. Yeah, didn't sober me up quite as much as I would have liked. But it's enough.  

I hear him say my name just as I slam the door behind me.


	9. Not Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan is so not attracted to men. Really.

***Aidan's POV***

Ugh. I feel like absolute shite. I'm currently face down on my hotel bed. I haven't slept. I wanted to. I wanted to fall into bed, pass out, wake up , and pretend that last night was just a bad dream. But it wasn't really that bad. It was a fun night with my best mates and then Dean kissed me. Which was. Not bad. Which is why this is all bad! FUCK! I punch an innocent pillow and grab my mobile for the thousandth time since I left Dean's room.  I don't know if I'm waiting for a 'sorry mate I was totally pissed' text or a 'lol you should have seen your face' or what.  But if he was gonna say something, he would've by now. Does he just want me to sit here going nuts? Or does he not think it's a big deal? 

Also, most importantly, when the fuck did I turn into a teenage girl?

I'm a grown man for Chrissake. I don't know why this is getting to me. But I better fucking figure it out soon. I'm supposed to meet everyone for food, and probably much more alcohol, later tonight.

You know, this wouldn't have bothered me a month ago. Before Sara decided to be done with me. A month ago, I would have laughed, completely ignored whether it was a nice kiss or a terrible one, gone home, and screwed my girlfriend. But now...

Okay, no. You know what? Not a big deal. I know Dean. I know he's more than a little flexible about who he hooks up with. I've met boyfriends. I've met girlfriends. I know the woman he's with right now considers him more of a convenient release of sexual tension than a boyfriend and I know that he's fine with that. Beyond fine. Dean's just much more ... relaxed? About relationships and physical intimacy than I've generally been. He calls me a serial monogamist. And I guess that's pretty accurate.  I do tend to go from long-term girlfriend to long-term girlfriend. We just have totally different approaches to this sort of thing, and that's why it's bothering me. So see, not a big deal. And he didn't mean anything by it. Now I can go to sleep. Good.

I close my eyes.

Yeah, that's not why it's bothering me. 

I decide to take a shower. Nice cold one. 'Cause all this thinking about Dean kissing me- I. Just. Need a shower.

I strip off yesterday's clothes, turn the shower knob all the way to the little blue "C," and hop in. And regret it  _immediately._  Now I'm cold and miserable. Fan-bloody-tastic. I have a quick scrub anyway, towel off, and return to bed. I pull the comforter over my head and I swear I'm not hiding. I'm just thinking. In the dark. Under the covers. Far away from Dean.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

Here's the thing. I'm not attracted to men. I'm not. No really, this isn't some pathetic and persistent state of denial. I'm  _not_  into men. Objectively, I know that I work with plenty of attractive men. Pretty people are everywhere in this world. Shit, I spent a year and a half hanging out with Richard Armitage quite regularly. I have it on good authority that he's a stud. Actually, motherfucking Ian McKellen's authority. Told me he couldn't think of a single food item that he wouldn't be willing to lick off the man's body. So. Ringing endorsement.  But I've only ever,  _ever_ , been attracted to women.

So lately, the way my stomach tightens when Dean touches me for a little too long, or stands too close, or whispers in my ear, or pins me to the floor and kisses the crap out of me. Yeah. It's bizarre. And now that I no longer have a girlfriend, I have nowhere to channel the excess... energy... that I always seem to have after spending time with him. I'm not attracted to men. But.

I think I'm attracted to Dean.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be unable to update for the next week or so, so I decided to add a couple more before I left.
> 
> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	10. Surreptitious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean regrets nothing.

***Dean's POV***

 

Adam elbows me in the ribs. Little bastard has sharp elbows!

"Ow! What?!"

He grins. "Sorry, I was trying to be surreptitious."  Prick.

"Bullshit."

He bounces in his seat. Proudly. "Yeah. Anyway. Well?"  He gives me a 'meaningful' stare. I return to my plate. When I don't reply he rolls his eyes dramatically. "What's with Aidan tonight?"

He jerks his head toward the restaurant door that Aid just disappeared through to grab a smoke. He's been near silent tonight, fidgety. And has been very careful not to look me straight in the eye. Suddenly, I'm very aware that our table is silent for the first time all night. Cautiously, I raise my head, and sure enough.  A table full of dwarves, plus a wizard and a hobbit, all staring at me, waiting for me to answer Adam's "surreptitious" question.

"Well how the hell should I know?!"

Christ, that's a lot of meaningful stares. Graham gives me his best Dwalin glower. "Fix it."

"How is that my job?!"

Richard crosses his arms, and while his voice is totally Thorin, the smirk is all Rich. "Fili, go take care of your baby brother, or Uncle will have to punish you."

I throw my hands up in defeat. Raucous, dwarven laughter follows me as I head for the door.

Aidan is leaning against the brick wall of the restaurant, head tilted back, eyes closed, cigarette hanging from his lips. Ugh. It's just fucking rude to be that sexy and simultaneously unattainable. That's it. Enough. 

I stalk toward him, grab him by the elbow, and drag him 'round the corner into the alleyway. I gotta say, I do take a somewhat perverse pleasure in his surprised squeak. I release his elbow and place my right hand on his chest, gently, but firmly, pushing him up against the brick. His eyes have gone impossibly wide. With my left hand I reach up, and close his gaping mouth for him. The cigarette was threatening to fall. Then I plant my left hand next to his face and lean in close, so that we're nose to nose. Yeah, I have to stand on my tip-toes, what of it?

"So, what, Turner? You afraid I'm gonna drag you across the table and have you right there? That it? Maybe get a little audience participation going? Nice Middle Earth gang-bang?"

He's gaping again. I take my hand from his chest, but I don't step back. I do rescue his cigarette. I take a quick drag, then stamp it out with my toe.

"Well don't worry. I'm not gonna suck your face off again. You may well be the sexiest men I've ever met, but if ya want any more of this, you're gonna have to ask for it. Now stop actin' like a twat and come finish your meal."

I leave him standing there, still flat against the wall, watching me walk away like I sprouted an extra head. Or three. I glance over my shoulder and pause before I turn the corner. "I regret nothing, you know."

I wink, blow him a kiss and head back inside.

The table is silent again and they all look at me expectantly.

"What? He's fine! Pass me the fucking wine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And as always, I don't know these characters, this is total fiction.


	11. Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know Turner, I always imagined you as a screamer."

***Aidan's POV***

This is ridiculous. This whole bloody weekend has been ridiculous. But this. Right now? Fuck me. So stupid. I'm walking up and down a goddamn hotel hallway, pausing outside Dean's door every pass, then hurrying away like a frightened schoolgirl. This is not me. I'm not the kind of guy who's afraid to go after what I want. I mean, I didn't get cast in the friggin' Hobbit because I was afraid to put myself out there, to take a risk for something I want. You don't get anything in this business unless you're willing go for it, head on, full tilt, no fear. Blah, blah, blah.  And, apparently, I want Dean. Much as I might want to, some of the physical reactions he, erm, inspires, in me, are rather impossible to ignore. I have no idea why I'm suddenly attracted to another man. Well, not so sudden, but that's not the point. The point is, I've got a flight home in under 48 hours, and if I don't take a shot now, I somehow doubt I ever will. Aaaaaand, here I am at his door. Again. Knock. Come on. Knock, you candy-ass, cowardly child. Man up. Knock. Do it.

I knock. I want to run. But my feet have stopped listening to my brain. Oh sweet Lord.

  

***Dean's POV***

"Aidan, I told you. I won't do anything else if you don't want it. You have to tell me what you want."

He shifts uncomfortably and stares at his feet. He hasn't moved any further into my hotel room than was physically necessary in order to close the door behind him. Hasn't said anything beyond "Hi" either.  I step a little closer and reach up to toy with the buttons on his shirt. His breath hitches. Progress. Sweet, sweet progress.

"Tell me what you want, Aid. Tell me why you're here." He licks his lips. And again. Tell me to kiss those lips. Come on. He's tense. Nervous. Unsure. A little bit panic-y. But he had the guts to come to me. Probably not easy for him. He's starting to figure out what he wants. And he's a stubborn little sonofabitch. Now that he's here of his own accord, he won't be bolting. Not this time. He's still staring at the floor when he answers me. Tries to answer me. His voice is quiet, unsteady, rough. 

"I want. I. I don't know. What I'm. Supposed to..." He trails off. He's struggling. He finally looks up at me, at a loss. Helpless. Creepy that I find that hot? Yeah. It is. Eh. Maybe I ought to take pity on him. I give him a smile; it's intended to be friendly. Comforting. Relaxing. I keep my voice light, joking.

"Come on now, Turner. If you don't tell me what you want, my only option is to throw you down and go at you right here and now. Have my wicked, wicked way. That what you want?"

I frown because he looks at his feet again. Clearly I've failed at my attempt at humor. His voice is barely audible, I almost miss it, so it takes a second for his near silent "Yeah." to register. Hooooly fuck. I fist my hand in a tight grip on his shirt. I'm suddenly lightheaded. There's basically zero blood getting to my brain. I cannot remember the last time I was this hard, this quickly. And he hasn't even touched me. He's gonna kill me. I'm gonna die. Totally gonna be worth it.

I've grabbed a hold of his shoulders and have got him shoved up against the door. Don't remember doing it, don't care. My mouth is on his and this time he parts his lips for me, moves against me, licks, sucks. Perfect. He's just fucking perfect. I smile against his lips when I realize he's still got his hands shoved in his pockets. Slowly, while I suck his tongue into my mouth, I slide my fingers down his arms and tug at his wrists. Tentative, slightly shaking, they come to rest lightly at my waist.  I slide my left arm behind him, low on his back and pull him close.  My right hand works at his buttons and I move to kiss my way across his neck. Tasty. Just as I suspected. I feel as much as hear the growl he's trying to suppress in the back of his throat. Oh, wow. I need him to be naked. Soon. My epic restraint is basically shot.  I've got his shirt undone. With a growl of my own I forcefully shove it off his shoulders and he struggles to free his hands.

I take the opportunity to pull my t-shirt off. Not about to lose the momentum we've got going, I hook my forefinger through his belt loop and stalk toward the bed, half guiding, half dragging him along as he finally frees himself from his tangled shirt and tosses it ... somewhere. Who cares. I turn and loop an arm around his belly. I don't throw him on the bed. Not really. But he doesn't really get the option not to fall backwards onto the comforter.

"Up." I wave my hand toward the pillows and he obediently scrambles backwards. His eyes are wide with lust. Lust and a little bit of... fear? Nerves? Something. Don't care. I start crawling toward him but I pause to consider the enticing scene in front of me. The disgusting, burgundy, floral pattern on the cheap hotel comforter is a sharp contrast to the beautiful man spread out in front of me.  Long, lean legs, his right bent at the knee, foot planted on the bed; his left splayed out in front of him. The black band of his briefs (maybe boxer briefs? I can't wait to find out) peeks out from the top of his worn blue jeans. Beyond that, a tanned belly, slim and toned, but not too muscular as to be unattractive. (I can't stand those overdeveloped juiced-up muscle builder types.)  No. He's just right. Strong, but slender. A generous sprinkling of dark hair across his chest, which rises and falls sharply. His biceps tense sporadically as he unconsciously clenches and unclenches his fists in that atrocious duvet. His eyes are fixed on my face and they're very nearly as wild as his hair. Which, at the moment, is an impressive feat. Oh yes, he's perfect. Picture perfect.  Wonder how far he'd run if I grabbed my camera?  

I try to suppress a grin and begin to move forward again. Slowly. I kneel between his legs, nudging them just a bit further apart. Still holding his gaze, I reach my hands behind me, just a bit, and slowly drag my hands across his legs, from calf to thigh, and I'm pretty sure he might hyperventilate. Oh, you poor, beautiful thing. I've barely started. I slowly rake my gaze down his body. And oh, god, what a body. I sneak my right hand behind and underneath of him to give his arse a quick, hard squeeze. My left, I slide up his thigh, then across his stomach, and back down to palm at his crotch.  I'm gratified to feel a nice, firm bulge under the denim and to hear a sharp intake of breath. I pop the button with my thumb and drag the zipper down. I lean forward and press a few quick kisses to his chest. I slide my hands to mirrored positions at his hips. A few more kisses, slow and wet, and I can feel his heart pounding. I meet his eyes again, squeeze, and then give him a little smack on his hip. 

"Up." I'm trying very hard to maintain my composure, but my voice feels thick and rough. He lifts his hips for me. Very obedient, this one. Oh, I am going to  _enjoy_  him. I pull his jeans off (Boxer briefs it is. Nice.) taking his shoes and socks in the process. I tug on his bare legs, moving him toward me, and flat on his back. I kiss the inside of his right knee, then an inch up, and up, and up. By the time I've reached his upper thigh, his muscles are trembling under my lips and an occasional strangled moan escapes him.  Because I like the way he squirms, I move past the bulge that's straining against his briefs. I like it when he's desperate. I do let my hands wander, however, occasionally brushing very lightly across his (unfortunately) fabric-encased-cock. I work my way back up his chest. I reach his collar-bone and finally look up again. He's practically panting, lips parted, wet. He's licking them over and over, almost compulsively. But he's turned slightly away from me, with his left arm thrown across his face, elbow across his eyes.

"Aidan? ... Aidan."

 

***Aidan's POV***

"Aidan?"

Nope. Still don't want to look at you. Sorry.

"Aidan." More insistent. He's planting hot, wet, hungry kisses along my jaw. Nips at my earlobe.  Kisses the spot where jaw meets neck. Jesus, I can't handle this.   And if I open my eyes, there he'll be. Dean. My mate. My fucking mate. No. Wait, no, not my  _fucking_  mate - ah hell, I know what I mean. It should probably make things feel strange, as close friends as we are, but it doesn't. This is a different Dean than I've ever seen before. Not goofy, funny Dean. Not artsy, thoughtful Dean. Not now. His voice is low, practically a growl. And demanding. His eyes are dark and a little bit dangerous. And the way he touches me is most assuredly different than he has ever touched me before. Different than anyone has ever touched me. The feel of him is insane. Overwhelming doesn't even approach it. To say that I'm aroused would also be an understatement. But if I have to keep watching him, I will lose my fucking mind. If I haven't already. I  _feel_ like I'm losing my mind. My ability to speak? Clearly gone. Along with my ability to form coherent thought. My ability to breathe properly. My ability to move. My whole self.  I feel like I'm going to fracture and not be Aidan any more. I know I'm being dramatic but I can't help it. I feel like I'm going to crack apart and literally just die, right here.  But not because I don't like it. I so like it. In fact, thinking about what will happen if he stops is worse.  

Like a fucking mind reader, he pulls away from me and I'm practically in a panic. Don't go, no, no, no, now I chased him off!  But then I feel the bed shifting. And his hand on my wrist. No. Don't. 

But he does. Pulls my arm away from my face and pins it to my left, next to my head.  I can't replace it with my other hand, because he's laying next to me now, well, kind of half on top of me, and my right arm is trapped between us.  But I've got my eyes screwed shut, so maybe I'm still safe from falling to pieces in front of Dean. As long as I don't look at him.

I can feel his breath on my face.  It's ragged, a little faster than normal.  But when he talks this time his voice is steady, and soft, and strong, and... and... I dunno. Dean. The Dean that I'm used to.

"Aidan. Come on, I want you to look at me."

Nope. I'm not in control of my self right now and I hate that. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing and I hate that more. I can't believe I got myself into this. So. Not looking.

He sighs softly. I'm so fucking this up.

"Aidan. Look, if you need me to back off, I'll back off."

Fuck! No! Don't leave. Stay here. Don't stop, please, please, don't. I want you. I do. Don't go.  But do I say any of that?  _Of_  course not, because I'm a mute bloody moron at the moment! But I do shake my head.

"Okay. Okay. Look, mate. I know you're freaking out. I know this is new. I know you're out of your depth. But really, it's beyond simple, Aid. I just need you to trust me, alright? I can manage the rest." He pauses. Waits. I-  

"Can you do that?"

Trust him? Yeah, well. Course I trust him. It's Dean. I mean, surely it's not actually that simple? But if that's it. That's really it. The only thing he needs from me... I  _can_ do that. Hopefully without all of my brain cells exploding. No promises though.

I open my eyes.

 

***Dean's POV***

 Well, that's a little better. But. Good God. He needs to calm down or I'm gonna end up hurting him. There is nothing I want more right now than to just ravage him senseless and make him beg for mercy. But. If I ever again want the privilege of fucking him into oblivion, I need him to relax. Relax and enjoy. 

Ah. Relax. Of course. Inspiration. 

I release his wrist. Reluctantly. One of these days I'll pin him to the bed and do  _everything_  I want to him, but not this night. Best not.  I take a minute, instead, to run my fingers through his crazy goddamn curls and give him a few long, slow, deep kisses. I pull back and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile and a wink. 

This time, I'm quick and efficient as I  remove the last stitch of his clothing. Finally,  _finally_ , he's totally naked and on display for me. Oh I want to leer, but I think I've teased enough. For now. 

I notice that his hands are shaking as he takes a nervous swipe at his hair. He thinks too much. I can deal with that.

"Now, Mr. Turner. All you gotta do is  _shuddup_ and do absolutely everything I say, you got that Sexy?" 

I'm rewarded with a short, breathy laugh, but a genuine smile.

I'm kneeling between his legs again, and I lean across him, left hand at his jaw, and give him one more quick kiss. I trace my thumb along his lips and I can't help myself. I move my index finger between his lips and catch his gaze.

"Suck."

His eyes widen, and I'm not quite sure how that's physically possible at this point. But he pulls my finger into his mouth and begins to suck. Nice.

It's a bit of an awkward shuffle for me, for a moment, but I manage to slide down so I'm laying between his legs, propped up on my elbow, all while he works my finger with his tongue. One more glance up at him, to make sure he's not completely freaked out and I bend down. With one quick move, I lick his shaft from root to tip. He gasps and shudders, letting my finger slip from his mouth. I look up again, meet his frantic gaze, and let my eyes narrow slightly. 

"I said, suck." I tap his lower lip with my wet finger.

I hear something sounding suspiciously like a whimper and he returns to his task. And I return to mine.  I begin to suck him off in earnest.  It's definitely not bragging to say that I am  _quite_  good at this. What can I say? I'm a man of many skills. He makes a kind of strangled cry, and my finger slides from his mouth again.  But that's fine. I bring my hand down, nudge his legs just a bit further apart and, still bobbing my head enthusiastically, nudge my wet finger between his cheeks. Obviously I'm not going to fuck him with nothing but spit for lube, but we aren't there yet.  I just want him to feel something inside of him, get an inkling of what's in store for him.

 

***Aidan's POV***

Omigodomigodomigod... I can't... can't. I have had my fair share of killer blowjobs but JesusfuckingChrist... wow...

All of a sudden I feel his finger - wet with my spit -  _Jesus_ \- pushing and, oh. Wow. That's. I'm... not sure. It feels ... odd? But not uncomfortable. Then he sucks particularly hard and I... can. Not. Think. He moves his finger a bit, in kind of a circle, and I think it's all the way in, and it's... still odd. But. I think. Not unpleasant. Not at all. And -oh fuckinghellomigod! WHAT is he doing with his tongue? That's. Fucking. Unngh.  I try to tell him - 

"D-Dean - "

But he fucking  _growls._  And I remember that he told me to shut up. Christ, I'm gonna die. Bet a coroner's never had to write 'death by blowjob' before.

 

***Dean's POV***

I've got my right forearm across his hips to keep him steady, but he still jerks upward and nearly gags me as he comes hard down my throat, with a sort of strangled groan. I can't help but smile to myself as I sit up and give my shoulders a roll. If that doesn't relax the man, nothing will. I study him for a little bit. Do my best to burn this picture into my memory. He looks half-human/half liquid. Definitely relaxed. Eyelids are heavy. And the barely suppressed panic has certainly faded.  I've been quietly surveying him for a while now and finally he gives me a slight frown and raises a questioning eyebrow.  I laugh quietly to myself and crawl forward so I can nibble at his ear again.

"You know Turner, I always imagined you as a screamer."

He blushes hard. I love that. And gives me a really excellent scowl. I love that, too. 

"Ya tol' me to shuddup." It's more of a mumble than real words, honestly. And his voice is still thick with lust. Which is good for me. I'm not done with him.

"That applies to conversation only.  You may feel free scream in ecstasy all you like."

That gets me a smile and another blush.  I dig both of my hands into his hair and turn him to face me. I kiss him hard and slide my tongue across his. Mmm. Ya know. I bet he can still taste himself on me. His first taste of cum, and it's his own, on my tongue. Oookay. That's it. I have ignored my impossibly hard cock long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said when I started this little adventure, it's been a decade since I wrote a fic and it's certainly been at least as long since I attempted anything smutty. And I'm not quite happy with it. But it was either post or keep fiddling and editing forever. So, I hope it's okay. I'm a bit out of practice.
> 
> As per usual, un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine. However, the story is complete fiction.


	12. Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

***Aidan's POV***

Dean pushes away from me and slides off the bed. I want to protest but he cuts me off with half-snarled "Don't move." 

I don't know why, but I'm absolutely fine with him telling me what to do.  Generally I hate being bossed. But. It is kind of a relief not having to make any decisions right now.

He disappears into the bathroom. He's back a minute later, and he's got something in his hand. But I have no idea what it is. Because he's also totally naked. Granted, I've seen Dean in various states of undress. But never like this. He's very nearly  _prowling_  towards me with purposeful expression on his face. And he's hard. And... big. Like, thick. Thicker than I am. But not quite as lo- holy shit. I'm  _staring_ at Dean's dick. Dean's. Dick.  I can feel my face heating up and I'm running my hands through my hair again. And that's really becoming a habit. I can feel the muscles in my shoulders starting to tense again because, yeah, that blowjob was great. Beyond. But. But. Surely now I'm expected to ...  _do_  something and I'm no less clueless than I was when I walked in Dean's door. Suddenly it's very clear to me that I'll still have ample opportunities to fuck this up.

And then, Naked-Dean is back on the bed. Back on me. I haven't moved, as instructed. He's on his knees straddling my hips. He's put whatever he was holding on the bed behind him. He reaches down at my sides and pulls my hands from the comforter. I didn't realize I'd grabbed hold again. He's running his thumbs over the backs of my hands and fucking  _looking_  at me with those damned blue eyes of his. It's still distracting. It's odd how those light, sparkling blue eyes can be such a dark blue when he's turned on like this.  And they're so... intent. Feels like he's in my head when he stares at me like that, like he knows everything I think.

"Touch me, Turner."

Involuntarily, my eyes dart down to his hard, red, cock again and then immediately back to his face. Aaand I'm blushing again. Christ, I'm such a fucking girl today.

But he doesn't seem to care. He moves my hands to his waist and then leans over me, hands on either side of my head, nose inches from mine. 

"Touch me. An hour from now, if there is a single inch of my skin that you haven't had your hands on, I will be sorely disappointed."  His tone, and his gaze, implies that if he's disappointed I will be somehow punished for my misdeeds. For some reason that makes my cock twitch and I'm pretty sure, if I hadn't just had greatest blowjob in blowjob history, I'd be hard, just from listening to him order me about. The things I'm learning about myself tonight.

He's kissing me again. And I run my hands up his back.  Deano may be a little dude, but he's strong. His back is all hard muscle and I like the way it feels, warm and tough. So different from what I'm used to. Feeling brave for a second I slide my left hand down his back and give his bum an experimental squeeze. He moans into my mouth and rocks his hips forward.  His length slides across my stomach and I feel like every inch of my skin is on fire.  

I do my best to comply with his directive that I touch every inch of him, but I just, I just can't-

Finally, he leans his weight onto his elbow, and while sucking a mark onto my collarbone, takes my left hand in his right and wraps it around his cock. I hope he can't tell that I'm shaking.  He guides my hand up and down a few times and I find I'm having difficulty catching my breath again. Then he moves his hand away and takes hold of me, stroking firm, and slow, in time with my own movements.  If my brain were functioning properly, or, you know, at all, I'd be impressed with myself that I'm starting to get hard again this soon.

He pulls back, and his eyes are dark and his voice is rough and he asks "You want me to fuck you Aidan?"  Actually, it's more of a statement than a question. But. I do. I think. No, I do. Is this not why I came here tonight?  I try to say so, but it seems I've lost complete control of my vocal chords. Again. So I nod.

He reaches behind him and produces a small bottle of clear liquid. So that's what he brought from the bathroom. A small corner of my mind is wondering if Dean always carries a travel size bottle of lube. The rest of my brain, however, is basically shut down, and I watch him slick up a couple fingers. Then I feel a little pressure and, yeah, a grand total of none of my brain cells are functioning any more.

  

***Dean's POV***

In the good news category, Aidan is clearly enjoying the way my fingers feel inside of him. Like I said, he needs to enjoy this, so I'm taking my time getting him ready. Even though it is killing me. I mean, he looks so. Good. Covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Shamelessly splayed out in front of me. Alternately twisting his fingers in the blankets or his hair. I told him he's not allowed to touch himself, and every time I remind him of that he whimpers. He's good and hard for me, again. Which is a sight to behold, let me tell you. Occasionally I brush my fingers against his cock or give him a few, light strokes. Not enough to give him the friction he needs, and soon his whimper turns into a moan. I can't tell you why, but something about a full-grown man, muscular, strong, and ordinarily so confident, competent and self-assured, just lying there, whimpering for me, completely vulnerable... such an incredible turn on. And, you know, it helps that he's gorgeous. Anyway.

The bad news is he's got his eyes firmly shut again, refusing to look at me even when I directly instruct him to. Sure, watching what I'm doing to him clearly gets him hot, but it also gets him a bit frantic. It's become obvious that when he lets himself get overwhelmed, he can't look me in the eye. And he is definitely overwhelmed. And overstimulated.  All my hard work relaxing him shot to hell. Fortunately inspiration is still with me today. I pull my hand away and he literally whines. I can't really blame him. 

"Hey." I rub my hand along his side firmly, trying to be calming. It's getting really fucking difficult to keep my voice steady when I need to.

"Aid? You wanna roll over? I'll be able to get a good angle easier if you're on your hands and knees." Yeah, yeah. Complete lie. I can manage just fine this way. But if watching me is too much, this gives him a totally legit reason to avoid eye contact. 

I help him over and take a second to slide on a condom and add an extra generous helping of lube. I place a hand on the small of his back and gently push him into the position I want. Oh, I've fantasized often enough about the hard, filthy fucking that this particular ass just screams for. Which makes it really, really difficult to maintain my composure now that I'm actually on my knees behind him, cock poised to push inside. I take a deep breath to calm myself. Slowly, really fucking painfully slowly, I push forward. Oh god. I am the king of restraint. Restraint. God, god, god. Aidan gasps and his shoulders are trembling, so even though it's killing me, I don't snap my hips forward, I don't grab hold of his waist and pound him into the mattress. Oh, but I  _really_ want to! No. I'm the king. Of bleeding. Restraint. So I move slowly, run my hand up and down his back, and finally, fucking finally, I'm buried in him as deep as I possibly can be. I need a minute. Christ. I lean forward and press a kiss to his back. His breath comes in sharp, fast, gasps and he's shaking. 

 

***Aidan's POV***

BloodyfuckingmotherofChrist! Dean mumbles something into my back. "Okay?" or something. My heart's pounding in my ears so hard I can't really hear him. Oh, and my brain's turned to mush so I don't really have a firm grasp on language. But it must have been something along those lines 'cause he hasn't moved, but he loops an arm around my chest, squeezes, and adds a "Hmm?"  Am I okay? I can't think. I can't focus. I can't - anything. I have no control over myself. I have no idea what to expect next. I feel Dean behind me, across my back, around me,  _inside_  me. I feel possessed. Not like, head-spinning-around-devil-within possessed, but, I don't know, like I don't belong to myself anymore. I'm desperate to feel more of him. But yeah, I'm okay. I nod. I think I might have even managed to choke out a "Yeah." 

I must have because he starts to  _move._ I drop to my elbows. I'm. This is. This. Just. So, so good.

 

***Dean's POV***

I'm not at all sure how I'm able to keep a smooth, steady pace for as long as I do. It's quickly becoming more than I can handle. But I'll be  _damned_  if I finish first. I hold him steady with a hand on his hip, and with my other I reach in front of him, grasp his cock and move my wrist in sharp, sure strokes.  The constant stream of moans and curses, interspersed with my name, is just desperately sexy. I feel warm cum spreading across my hand and the last shred of my fantastically epic restraint snaps entirely. I return both hands to his hips, and gripping hard, I fuck him like I mean it. Sharp, deep thrusts, erratic. He's groaning underneath me, clenching around me,  and he's tight and so, so insanely good. I come hard and it's all I can do to keep from collapsing on top of him.

I roll to the side and catch my breath. The last thing I want to do is move, but, out of necessity, I clamber out of bed, toss the condom in the bin, hurriedly clean myself up and return to Aidan. I slide back onto the bed. He's lying on his stomach, face buried in a pillow. His breathing has slowed but is still unsteady. The cursing has stopped. I take hold of his arm and haul him over toward me (and out of the mess we've just made). Ungh. Heavy. I kick the rumpled comforter to the floor. I'm more than warm enough. He hasn't said a word. He does throw an arm across my chest. Eventually, he turns his face toward me, kisses my shoulder, and hides his face in my neck. I let him hide. No need to push.  After a while, his breathing evens out.

Hell of a night.  I shift a little bit, trying not to disturb my weary Irishman, and reach toward the switch for the lamp. Before I can turn it off, something catches my attention from the corner of my eye. I can just see our reflection, in the edge of a mirror in the corner of the room. Wow. Aidan's beautiful eyes are closed, hair's a total wreck. Exhausted. Dark lashes fluttering occasionally. And for the first time in months, every muscle in his body is slack. He's actually calm, content. I know I overuse the word when it comes to Aid. I know I said his tormented expression was perfect. His melancholy. His body. His hair. His smile. His eyes. His moans. But I was wrong.  _This_ is perfect. 

I'm struck with an irresistible urge. I have to do it. The artist in me demands it. I stretch the arm that's not occupied by Aidan Turner toward the bedside table. If I can  _just_  - yes! I can barely reach my mobile. I open the camera and angle it juuust a bit... 

_Click._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said when I started this little adventure, it's been a decade since I wrote a fic and it's certainly been at least as long since I attempted anything smutty. So, I hope it's okay. I'm a bit out of practice.
> 
> As per usual, un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine. However, the story is complete fiction.


End file.
